Consequences
by irrlicht74
Summary: A kind of "epilogue" to S03E03. John and Sherlock may have forgiven Mary, but there were at least two people who haven't.


**Disclaimer: **I don't know these people. I'd love to make money with it, but I don't.

**Author's Notes:** Soooo... I had issues. I have to admit I only watched episode three, but after having done so – and listening to things people said who have watched ball/b of season three – I don't want to watch the remaining two episodes anymore. Or the (maybe) two more seasons.

Instead of writing a furious rant about it (which I still could do, and no mistake) I decided to try my hand on fanfiction once more. It's for you to decide whether I succeeded or not.

**Consequences**

Greg had to get out of here. Now. Yes, it was Christmas Eve and yes, he had agreed to John's party – only a very small affair, as every year – but it was close to midnight now, and Greg's patience was running out. As was his restraint.

And how on earth could he have ever thought this would be a good idea? After everything Mary had done the DI had known perfectly well that he would never be able to do anything more than tolerate that woman. And for John's sake only. Due to these circumstances the whole "party" was a pretty subdued occurrence, and the tension was almost palpable.

Mary was nothing but friendly, John tried to act as if everything was normal, just like it had been... well, _before_, and Greg did his level best to be at least civil, but he was pretty sure that all he said and did came across as rigid at best and icily polite at worst.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her, asked him about all the world and his brother every time the conversation stuttered to a halt, and Greg always replied as lengthy and detailed as possible. Mostly because he tried to get his mind off wanting to strangle John's wife right on the spot, but also because he genuinely liked Mrs. Hudson. She was a gem, and he was absolutely convinced that she knew which state he was in – truth be told, she looked a bit murderous herself whenever her gaze fell on Mary – and tried to help him relax.

Which had even worked for a few hours, but Greg knew, if he stayed any longer, he would sure as hell damage his – barely but still existing – friendship with John beyond repair. So he emptied his beer and said, "Well, thank you for a lovely evening." Sherlock snorted, but Greg ignored him. "But I really have to go."

John blinked. "You're not on duty, are you?"

Greg smiled. "No." As if he would have drunk that much alcohol if he were! John should've known that, but... oh, well. "I'm meeting Mycroft. Hopefully. But since there wasn't a text up until now, I'm pretty sure I've something to look forward to."

"No, you don't," said Sherlock, his voice clipped but still sounding bored. "Mycroft prefers to call and will probably work all night. He hates Christmas."

"As do you," Greg replied friendly, "yet here you are. Things can change."

"You want to go home, because you can't stand being around Mary any longer."

Greg noticed how John's fingers clenched around his glass, knuckles going white. A little more and it would break.

"Oh yeah?" Greg said loftily. "And how would you know?"

Of course, he already knew how. One didn't need to be The Great Sherlock Holmes to recognise his discomfort. Greg had never been good at pretending, at faking. He had no idea how Mycroft did it all day long.

"Body language," Sherlock explained predictably. "You really are an open book, Lestrade."

"Well! Since you can read me so perfectly, read this!"

He gave the younger man a look he had titled as 'contradict-me-on-that-again-and-I-_will_-deck-you'-glare. Sherlock snorted, but stayed silent. Satisfied for the moment Greg turned to John again.

"I'm sorry," he said, conveying everything he needed to in that one phrase. John looked at him, a moment too long, but then nodded.

"Thank you for coming, Greg."

"Anytime."

He knew why John had invited him. He had invited him for the same reason that Greg had agreed to come: to prove themselves that they could do this. That they could stay friends, that, maybe, it could be like it had before Mary had shot Sherlock, or that they could at least be civil about it. Greg was not even remotely sure how that had turned out tonight, but it was more than clear that things would never be as they had been again. Not that Greg hat reckoned they would be. But maybe John had?

Mary, who had disappeared into the kitchen, came back and handed Greg a bag.

"Here! I made a cake. It was meant for tea tomorrow, but I know that Mycroft loves cake. And since his job made it impossible to join us for dinner, I thought a few pieces of cake would make up for it."

Greg hesitated maybe a little too long, but finally took the bag and even managed a smile – which probably looked as forced as it felt – and a, "Thank you."

He almost hadn't touched his dinner. It had smelled delicious and had tasted just as good, but the thought alone that Mary had made it had put Greg completely off his appetite. And, yes, maybe that was immature and childish, but nobody had ever claimed that feelings were anything but uncontrollable. He would buy take-out on his way home. Maybe at that small Indian place Mycroft liked so much, provided it was still open. Otherwise there was always McDonald's, though Greg knew he would risk his life should he dare to offer something so _base_ to his posh partner. He had to suppress a grin at the thought. Greg hugged Mrs. Hudson. "Good bye. And happy Christmas."

"Good-bye, Greg, and to you, too. Give Mycroft my best, will you?"

"Of course! I wouldn't dare deny him well-wishes from his favourite person in the world."

Mrs. Hudson punched his upper arm. "Oh, be quiet, you! We all know who his favourite person in the world is, and it's certainly not me."

Greg chuckled as Sherlock started to make gagging noises, and even John couldn't help smiling at that.

Greg left shortly afterwards. He rounded the next corner of Baker Street and threw the cake into a dustbin nearby. Again with the childish, but who cared? And Mycroft wouldn't eat that cake even if it were the last edible thing on earth.

Greg started walking towards the nearest subway station, and almost died of a heart attack when a tall, dark figure appeared in front of him. "Bloody buggering Christ! SHERLOCK!"

The consulting detective gave that little "half-smile" he didn't use often. "You do know that you haven't fooled anyone tonight, right?"

They continued walking side by side. "That's not what that was about," Greg replied. "I wasn't there to _fool anyone_, as you put it. I was there to prove that we can move on."

"That doesn't even make sense, Lestrade."

"To us ordinary mortals, it does, Sherlock."

The younger man frowned. "Explain!"

"Ask John!"

"I'm asking you!"

"Well, hard cheese!"

"You're angry. Why are you angry?"

Greg stopped walking, but it took Sherlock a bit to realise that, so he was a few steps ahead of the DI when he turned around. "Why am I angry," Greg repeated. "_Why_ am I _angry_? Because she _shot you_, Sherlock! Right in the chest! Consciously and willingly risking your death. And you _died_!"

"She called an ambulance immediately!"

"And with chest wounds, we all know that's a sure fire way to save someone's life."

"She knew what she was doing!"

"That makes it _worse_!"

Greg glared at the man he had long since considered not exactly a son but at least the little brother he'd never had. From the very moment he'd picked up his scrawny, drugged-up arse to shower, eat and sleep it off in his flat, over the next morning, when Sherlock had left said flat along with Greg's money, laptop and DVD player, right up to the point where he'd faked his own death. Greg didn't know whether Sherlock was really not physically and mentally able to realise that he was Greg's friend or if he just didn't _want_ to realise it, but whatever Sherlock's reasons were, Greg didn't give a fuck. He didn't care that the younger man thought he wouldn't be able to count to twenty if it weren't for his fingers and toes. He didn't care that he called him Graham, George or even Gilbert. At least he got the G part right.

Sherlock was his friend, always would be, and nobody shot his friends! Not on his watch! Except that Mary _had_, and Greg would not only never forgive her for that, he would never forgive himself, either. For not having noticed anything, for not being there with Sherlock, for not being there at all.

Sherlock studied him attentively in that single-minded way of his that had long since stopped bothering the DI. He had nothing to hide. Sherlock's features seemed to soften a bit, but before he could say anything Greg beat him to it.

"Look, I really gotta go, okay? I'm sorry I can't give you the answers you want, but I really don't have them. You forgave her, John forgave her, that's fine. None of my business. Bye!"

He started walking but was stopped again a few steps later, when he heard Sherlock's almost too soft, "It was no big deal."

Greg hung his head. "Yeah," he murmured, "_you_ would think so. Of course you would." He straightened and turned to look back at Sherlock. "You know who thought it was a big deal? John! John thought it was a _very_ big deal. He was absolutely furious, and he had every right to be. His wife, who he loved and who he'd trusted, had lied to him and shot his best friend, for the most selfish reasons on earth! He was furious until you sprouted that pseudo-psychological bullshit and convinced him otherwise!"

And to this day Greg didn't know what had been more painful: to see how Sherlock was saving his and John's friendship, John's sanity, the only way he knew how, or John actually believing him, letting Sherlock play down his importance, his personal value, so John could choose Mary over Sherlock.

The younger man's eyes narrowed. "You saw the footage."

"Of bloody course I saw the footage! This was something that concerned me _personally_! Mycroft would never keep something like that from me."

"You think?"

"I _know_." Greg sighed. "Look, Mycroft and me, we go way back. Pretty much as long as you and me. We've been doing this for years, now. We might've started dating only a few months ago, but we've tried to keep your arse out of too much trouble since the day I met you. Sometimes more, sometimes less successful, but still. I also know he doesn't tell me _everything_, but please believe me when I say: something this important will always be a secret your brother is going to share with me immediately."

Sherlock regarded him silently for a few heartbeats, then asked, "Do you think it would have been better if the child grew up without its father?"

"Yes!" An eyebrow rose. "No! I don't know! I really don't know, Sherlock. All I do know is that this is wrong. This feels wrong. You did the right thing. And that's something I've never thought I'd say. You did the right thing, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean it was actually right." That got Greg that 'I-know-you-_are_-stupid-but-right-now-you-are-_exceptionally_-stupid'-look. The DI smiled grimly. "And it sure as hell doesn't make her actions right! Those were as wrong as all get out. And while I'm sure you can manipulate me as easily as your brother can, you will never make me believe otherwise."

Sherlock blinked. "I cannot manipulate you."

"Yeah, right."

"I never could, Lestrade, and not for lack of trying. Whatever I did to push you into a certain direction or get you to react a certain way, it has never worked." Greg stared at him, speechless. The younger man indicated a shrug. "Of course, that is probably a sign that you are just too stupid to recognise my subtle hints and mechanics,..."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's the reason."

"...but the result is the same."

"And while I'm in a position where I can fool myself into believing you actually paid me a compliment, I'm taking my leave. Like I said, none of my business. I only hope that... woman knows what you did for her and for John. You did save her life, after all."

Sherlock tilted his head a fraction to the side. "Interesting. Why would you say that?"

"Because you went out of your way – far, _far_ out of your way – and asked your brother not to do anything. At all. You have sacrificed quite a bit of your pride there, so it must've been very important for you."

The dark-haired detective regarded him coolly, but Greg only grinned. As much as Sherlock pretended to hate Mycroft, he'd asked his brother for help before.

"We both know, detective inspector," Sherlock finally replied, "that Mycroft would have killed Mary the very moment she stepped out of that building. She wouldn't even have had the time to complete a whole step. So I would rather say she owes all that gratitude to you, Lestrade."

The DI shrugged. "Who knows?"

"_I_ do."

Again he watched Greg with a mixture of 'd'uh' and curiosity. Greg took a deep breath. "Out with it, Sherlock!"

"Why did you ask him to let her leave? Why didn't you let him kill her?"

Greg exhaled. "First of all, because I could never make Mycroft _not_ do anything he really wants to do, and then... For the same reason you did."

"Which is?"

"It would've destroyed John." Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly. "And, by extension, you – should you have survived the whole thing. Which you did."

They stood in silence for a while. Greg almost wished he still smoked. "Interrogation over, consulting detective?" Greg finally asked.

Sherlock looked like he had completely forgotten about him. "Yes. Of course."

"Alright then," Greg replied easily and turned to go, but... there was really still one thing. "Why did she shoot you?"

"Come again?"

"Why did Mary shoot you?"

Another one of those 'you-really-are-too-stupid-for-words'-glances. "Because she wanted to keep me from telling her secrets to John. Which she knew, I would do."

"Okay. Then why not kill you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said it yourself: she knew what she was doing! She shot you and was a good enough marksman to miss your heart and _not_ kill you. Why not, though? She must have known that you would _still_ talk to John, as soon as you'd be able. But she didn't kill you. And if she knew all that, and still didn't kill you... Why shoot you at all? The result is the same. With shooting you John got told a bit later, I'll give you that, but he was told _either way_. So? Why shoot you?" Sherlock, for once in his life, looked utterly perplexed. Greg gave him a nod. "Think about it! Happy Christmas!"

Greg turned away and finally continued walking. This time Sherlock didn't stop him. And if a sleek, silent, black car picked him up before he reached the subway station, it was nobody's business but his own.

~ The End ~


End file.
